The Person of Interest Intersection, Wendy/Lacey, R
The Person of Interest Intersection
The Middleman, Wendy/Lacey, 2,050 words, R
Written for fiercynn for the always awesome femslash10.
Wendy's pretty good at hiding her secret double life. Normally. Not however, on this occasion, when the secret double life she's slowly starting to really adjust to means she has to come home at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon covered - not 'dripped on,' not 'slightly sodden,' but drenched - in blue slime that glows in a distinctly extraterrestrial way.
But she has a plan. Noser's out, playing a gig at the protest for political solidarity/Post-post-Marxist fundraiser/vegan lunch potluck she's actually also supposed to be attending. So all she has to do is keep lurking into the sad, wilted bushes outside her building and wait until Lacey leaves for her feminist book club, then sneak in and rinse off - Wendy glances down again at the viscous puddle forming underneath her and mentally revises - throw away her clothes.
"Dub-Dub?"
Wendy winces, putting a hand to her face like she can hide herself by not looking up. It doesn't work, and a second later Lacey's pushing apart the dry, bare twigs of the bush and peering in.
Wendy tightens her mouth and gives a resigned, desperate nod.
"What are you... what are you doing out here?"
"I believe I could ask you the same question," Wendy says as seriously as she can, standing up straight and, with the power of great and deliberate ignorance, not acknowledging the state of her former, perfectly-fitted suit. "You're not supposed to be leaving for" - she glances down at her watch, pointedly not mentioning the globs of blue and sticky glop obscuring the surface - "another fifteen minutes."
"Oh, Pip came over to borrow a cup of sugar and wouldn't leave. I left early just to escape," Lacey clarifies, a little desperate around the eyes.
"A cup of sugar," Wendy says, sympathetically.
"You know, I don't think it was for sugar at all," Lacey says. "He didn't even ask about it when I kicked him out and left."
"Persistent, huh."
"He wouldn't shut up about Nietzschean ethics and how The Fountainhead changed his life," says Lacey. They share an involuntary shudder in unison.
There's an awkward pause, where Wendy continues to stare straight ahead.
"So you were-" Lacey starts.
"Looking for something." This doesn't seem to cut it as an excuse, so Wendy runs with it. "Looking for my watch. Which I dropped here. As I passed to come inside and say hello!" As soon as she says it, she winces inside. Way too much enthusiasm on the last sentence.
"You're wearing your watch," Lacey says.
And also an obviously confirmed lie. She is really off her game today, for which she can only excuse herself by remembering that she was, at least momentarily, half-sucked into a portal located inside a Fleurbishon from a planet unable to be pronounced by human vocal cords, a portal to be entered through a sort of goopy stomach cavity and to be exited never again.
"I found it!" Wendy says brightly.
"Good!" says Lacey, still giving her the pained eyes of really wanting to believe her excuses. She pauses again. "Well, I should get going - the vegan cheese in these mini-quiches doesn't really stand up too well in the heat."
"Right. And I should get going inside! Now that I've - found my watch."
"Yep. Bye Wendy!" Lacey says, then goes to walk away. "Oh, but Wendy - clean the shower out after, okay?"
"Right on!" says Wendy, finally glancing down at herself. "Will do!" When Lacey's gone, and Wendy has extricated herself from the bush with a minimum of scratches and tears in her already ruined-suit, she trudges upstairs to the shower, feeling sort of grumpy and bad at the same time.
It's been a long day, even though it's only nine o'clock, and obviously she has reason to feel cranky. But rinsing out the water in her hair, Wendy tries not to think about the sting of the awkwardness of lying to Lacey, a really BLEEPING horrible end to a really BLEEPING horrible day. She'll make it up to her tomorrow, Wendy thinks, closing her eyes into the lukewarm spray.
*
She doesn't. Lacey gets home late from her book club/spontaneous protest of some jerk writer signing his autobiography uptown, and sleeps in late in the morning. Wendy gets called away to a Middleman emergency early, and makes her coffee quietly enough that Lacey barely shifts on the futon where her disheveled blonde hair is practically the only thing visible about her. Wendy drinks her coffee slowly though, savoring what's going to be the only peaceful thing about her day, and watches Lacey sleep a little, the soft up-and-down of the quilt that they made together sophomore year of college when Lacey was running a fabric reuse co-op. She looks peaceful and soft and happy, and yeah, Wendy guesses that most people look all innocent when they're sleeping with a little bit of hair in their face and the fingers of one hand curled in the twists of a blanket, but this is Lacey. She drains the last of her coffee and leaves as quietly as she can, probably to go kill something.
And by the time she gets home (having, if not killed something, then at least banished it to some kind of hell dimension where it'll wander the ends of some desert planet alone to vent its vicious, indiscriminate rage hopefully forever), Lacey and Noser are out again.
*
Lacey meets her at the door of their illegal sublet two weeks later with contorted eyebrows of agony. Wendy goes down the panic checklist: nails recently bitten down to heck, check. Lacey's least-paint-stained clothes, check. Expression of deep misery, check. But she's been busy with work, ignoring the Middleman's pointed comments about the need for personal sacrifice for the common good and Ida's straight-up "You have a friend still talking to you? Probably 'cause you're dealing her the good stuff, dopehead," and she hasn't been home much at all. Not enough to guess why Lacey's freaked.
"What's up?" Wendy says, but there's no time, since Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD emerges from the elevator seconds later.
"Lacey." Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD greets her daughter with a handshake that looks both firm and efficient. Wendy would not have expected any less. There's a faint line of sweat on Lacey's upper lip.
"Dr. Thornfield!" Lacey says, a little too loud. "How - how are you?"
"Perfectly satisfactory," says Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD, putting down her briefcase. "And this must be your person of interest."
"Oh, no, sorry-" Lacey starts.
"Don't apologize, Lacey. It makes you look weak. Same-sex attraction is merely a biological characteristic. Though I will say, it does substantially reduce your ability to obtain public office, should that be one of your long-term ambitions."
"Wendy Watson," Wendy intercedes, before Lacey can flip out any more. "Platonic roommate."
"Ah," says Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD, taking a moment to adjust her glasses. "I see. Well, please feel welcome to join us for a light dinner."
Lacey claps a hand on Wendy's arm in a determined, mildly painful grasp. She's not blinking, at all. It's a little creepy. "Yes, Wendy. Please do."
Wendy barely even gets out her agreement before Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD, has picked her briefcase back up and is striding back down the hallway.
Lacey lets her hand slide down and intertwine with Wendy's for a minute. "Thank you," she whispers, and Wendy tightens her hand, holding onto Lacey for a second.
*
"That was miserable," Lacey moans, flopping down into the armchair in a kind of whole-body collapse.
Wendy heads straight for kitchen, pouring the remains of the morning's coffee into two mugs and sticking them in the microwave. There's really no other remedy for a surprise visit from Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD.
"She insulted you for being a temp and she insulted me for 'squandering my genetic potential' and 'living in adverse conditions to build and maintain a solid marital relationship' and I don't even know what she expects out of me, I mean, I can only be who I am, right? And who I am is never going to be the kind of person who gets honorary degrees in Abu Dhabi or practices pediatric cardiac surgery with only a tent frame and a sewing kit."
"You don't have to be that to be awesome," Wendy reminds her.
"I know," Lacey says glumly, over the sound of the microwave beeping. "Still. I mean, I don't even know how to shake hands with her! I get all clammy and limp and freaked out!"
Wendy puts both mugs of coffee down on the table and sits on Lacey's futon.
"Well, that last one we can fix, at least," she says.
Lacey matches her smile when Wendy holds out a hand. They shake enthusiastically.
"See, that wasn't bad at all, right?" Wendy says.
"Yeah, but it's not like I'm going to be nervous and freaked out and clammy with you, Dub-Dub. I mean, you're my-"
Wendy turns Lacey's hand over, still holding it.
"I mean, you're my- well, my person of interest too, I guess. As close as anybody comes."
Wendy looks down at their hands. "I'm sorry I haven't been home much. I mean, I almost missed being here for you, with this."
The feeling of Lacey's other hand, coming to rest on top of their intertwined fingers, brings her back to the present.
"You're kinda not just a temp, right?"
"Nope," Wendy says. "But any more guessing and I'd have to kill you."
"Sadly, I'm a little worried you might actually mean that."
Wendy folds over, so relieved to have this out in the open and forgiven that she has to rest her head on their hands. Lacey pulls away, causing a momentary spike of panic, but then come the sounds of her settling next to Wendy on the futon and the feel of her arm across Wendy's bent shoulders.
"We're good, Dub-Dub."
"Good," Wendy says, turning so that their foreheads touch. "Cause, you know, you're kind of my person of interest too."
Lacey inhales sharply, breathing out a 'Wendy," but that's all she gets out before Wendy is kissing her, has to be kissing her, can't not be kissing her. She goes in gently, barely touching Lacey's lips at all, because jeepers, if this goes wrong, it's gonna be a level of awkward unknown to most forms of life. And Wendy's met most of them, at this point, so she can say that with real expertise.
Lacey freezes for a moment, just long enough for Wendy to start thinking about pulling away and apologizing forever, but then she's there, one hand in Wendy's hair, the other still clutching at Wendy's hand. She presses Wendy back, letting her go only to shove all the unnecessary pillows to the floor. They're only going to be in the way, Wendy thinks, before Lacey's pulling off her shirt and even the basic function of pillows escapes her.
*
Wendy bites at Lacey's bare shoulder a little. The futon's not really large enough for them to lie side by side without being half on top of each other. Which, right now, is absolutely just fine for Wendy.
"This was-"
"Unexpected?" Wendy interrupts.
"No," Lacey says thoughtfully. "Really not."
Wendy traces designs with a finger on the curve of Lacey's hip, a vine trailing upwards, a rabbit, the vague outline of one of her favorite Middle-devices.
"Just a little late," Wendy finishes. "For a couple of young, photogenic artists with open minds."
"We're dumb," says Lacey, and rolls back fully on top of her. She leans down until their noses bump gently. Wendy brings her arms up to wrap around Lacey's bare back, sliding down and down.
"Is it going to be weird if I still don't talk about my job?" Wendy asks, closing her eyes.
Lacey sighs, laying a path of lazy kisses across her cheeks. "No - wait, does it let you always respect the agency, autonomy and basic rights of all animal life?"
"Yep," Wendy says. "But I might have to miss some stuff."
"Be unreliable."
"Be late."
Lacey brings a hand up to touch at Wendy's neck, the line of her collarbone, the curve of a breast. It's kind of a long pause, and Wendy swallows hard.
"We'll be okay," Lacey corrects herself, grinning, "We'll be good."
"Holy moly, we will," Wendy says, and pulls her down.
The Middleman, Wendy/Lacey, 2,050 words, R
Written for fiercynn for the always awesome femslash10.
Wendy's pretty good at hiding her secret double life. Normally. Not however, on this occasion, when the secret double life she's slowly starting to really adjust to means she has to come home at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon covered - not 'dripped on,' not 'slightly sodden,' but drenched - in blue slime that glows in a distinctly extraterrestrial way.
But she has a plan. Noser's out, playing a gig at the protest for political solidarity/Post-post-Marxist fundraiser/vegan lunch potluck she's actually also supposed to be attending. So all she has to do is keep lurking into the sad, wilted bushes outside her building and wait until Lacey leaves for her feminist book club, then sneak in and rinse off - Wendy glances down again at the viscous puddle forming underneath her and mentally revises - throw away her clothes.
"Dub-Dub?"
Wendy winces, putting a hand to her face like she can hide herself by not looking up. It doesn't work, and a second later Lacey's pushing apart the dry, bare twigs of the bush and peering in.
Wendy tightens her mouth and gives a resigned, desperate nod.
"What are you... what are you doing out here?"
"I believe I could ask you the same question," Wendy says as seriously as she can, standing up straight and, with the power of great and deliberate ignorance, not acknowledging the state of her former, perfectly-fitted suit. "You're not supposed to be leaving for" - she glances down at her watch, pointedly not mentioning the globs of blue and sticky glop obscuring the surface - "another fifteen minutes."
"Oh, Pip came over to borrow a cup of sugar and wouldn't leave. I left early just to escape," Lacey clarifies, a little desperate around the eyes.
"A cup of sugar," Wendy says, sympathetically.
"You know, I don't think it was for sugar at all," Lacey says. "He didn't even ask about it when I kicked him out and left."
"Persistent, huh."
"He wouldn't shut up about Nietzschean ethics and how The Fountainhead changed his life," says Lacey. They share an involuntary shudder in unison.
There's an awkward pause, where Wendy continues to stare straight ahead.
"So you were-" Lacey starts.
"Looking for something." This doesn't seem to cut it as an excuse, so Wendy runs with it. "Looking for my watch. Which I dropped here. As I passed to come inside and say hello!" As soon as she says it, she winces inside. Way too much enthusiasm on the last sentence.
"You're wearing your watch," Lacey says.
And also an obviously confirmed lie. She is really off her game today, for which she can only excuse herself by remembering that she was, at least momentarily, half-sucked into a portal located inside a Fleurbishon from a planet unable to be pronounced by human vocal cords, a portal to be entered through a sort of goopy stomach cavity and to be exited never again.
"I found it!" Wendy says brightly.
"Good!" says Lacey, still giving her the pained eyes of really wanting to believe her excuses. She pauses again. "Well, I should get going - the vegan cheese in these mini-quiches doesn't really stand up too well in the heat."
"Right. And I should get going inside! Now that I've - found my watch."
"Yep. Bye Wendy!" Lacey says, then goes to walk away. "Oh, but Wendy - clean the shower out after, okay?"
"Right on!" says Wendy, finally glancing down at herself. "Will do!" When Lacey's gone, and Wendy has extricated herself from the bush with a minimum of scratches and tears in her already ruined-suit, she trudges upstairs to the shower, feeling sort of grumpy and bad at the same time.
It's been a long day, even though it's only nine o'clock, and obviously she has reason to feel cranky. But rinsing out the water in her hair, Wendy tries not to think about the sting of the awkwardness of lying to Lacey, a really BLEEPING horrible end to a really BLEEPING horrible day. She'll make it up to her tomorrow, Wendy thinks, closing her eyes into the lukewarm spray.
*
She doesn't. Lacey gets home late from her book club/spontaneous protest of some jerk writer signing his autobiography uptown, and sleeps in late in the morning. Wendy gets called away to a Middleman emergency early, and makes her coffee quietly enough that Lacey barely shifts on the futon where her disheveled blonde hair is practically the only thing visible about her. Wendy drinks her coffee slowly though, savoring what's going to be the only peaceful thing about her day, and watches Lacey sleep a little, the soft up-and-down of the quilt that they made together sophomore year of college when Lacey was running a fabric reuse co-op. She looks peaceful and soft and happy, and yeah, Wendy guesses that most people look all innocent when they're sleeping with a little bit of hair in their face and the fingers of one hand curled in the twists of a blanket, but this is Lacey. She drains the last of her coffee and leaves as quietly as she can, probably to go kill something.
And by the time she gets home (having, if not killed something, then at least banished it to some kind of hell dimension where it'll wander the ends of some desert planet alone to vent its vicious, indiscriminate rage hopefully forever), Lacey and Noser are out again.
*
Lacey meets her at the door of their illegal sublet two weeks later with contorted eyebrows of agony. Wendy goes down the panic checklist: nails recently bitten down to heck, check. Lacey's least-paint-stained clothes, check. Expression of deep misery, check. But she's been busy with work, ignoring the Middleman's pointed comments about the need for personal sacrifice for the common good and Ida's straight-up "You have a friend still talking to you? Probably 'cause you're dealing her the good stuff, dopehead," and she hasn't been home much at all. Not enough to guess why Lacey's freaked.
"What's up?" Wendy says, but there's no time, since Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD emerges from the elevator seconds later.
"Lacey." Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD greets her daughter with a handshake that looks both firm and efficient. Wendy would not have expected any less. There's a faint line of sweat on Lacey's upper lip.
"Dr. Thornfield!" Lacey says, a little too loud. "How - how are you?"
"Perfectly satisfactory," says Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD, putting down her briefcase. "And this must be your person of interest."
"Oh, no, sorry-" Lacey starts.
"Don't apologize, Lacey. It makes you look weak. Same-sex attraction is merely a biological characteristic. Though I will say, it does substantially reduce your ability to obtain public office, should that be one of your long-term ambitions."
"Wendy Watson," Wendy intercedes, before Lacey can flip out any more. "Platonic roommate."
"Ah," says Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD, taking a moment to adjust her glasses. "I see. Well, please feel welcome to join us for a light dinner."
Lacey claps a hand on Wendy's arm in a determined, mildly painful grasp. She's not blinking, at all. It's a little creepy. "Yes, Wendy. Please do."
Wendy barely even gets out her agreement before Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD, has picked her briefcase back up and is striding back down the hallway.
Lacey lets her hand slide down and intertwine with Wendy's for a minute. "Thank you," she whispers, and Wendy tightens her hand, holding onto Lacey for a second.
*
"That was miserable," Lacey moans, flopping down into the armchair in a kind of whole-body collapse.
Wendy heads straight for kitchen, pouring the remains of the morning's coffee into two mugs and sticking them in the microwave. There's really no other remedy for a surprise visit from Dr. Barbara Thornfield, MD, PhD.
"She insulted you for being a temp and she insulted me for 'squandering my genetic potential' and 'living in adverse conditions to build and maintain a solid marital relationship' and I don't even know what she expects out of me, I mean, I can only be who I am, right? And who I am is never going to be the kind of person who gets honorary degrees in Abu Dhabi or practices pediatric cardiac surgery with only a tent frame and a sewing kit."
"You don't have to be that to be awesome," Wendy reminds her.
"I know," Lacey says glumly, over the sound of the microwave beeping. "Still. I mean, I don't even know how to shake hands with her! I get all clammy and limp and freaked out!"
Wendy puts both mugs of coffee down on the table and sits on Lacey's futon.
"Well, that last one we can fix, at least," she says.
Lacey matches her smile when Wendy holds out a hand. They shake enthusiastically.
"See, that wasn't bad at all, right?" Wendy says.
"Yeah, but it's not like I'm going to be nervous and freaked out and clammy with you, Dub-Dub. I mean, you're my-"
Wendy turns Lacey's hand over, still holding it.
"I mean, you're my- well, my person of interest too, I guess. As close as anybody comes."
Wendy looks down at their hands. "I'm sorry I haven't been home much. I mean, I almost missed being here for you, with this."
The feeling of Lacey's other hand, coming to rest on top of their intertwined fingers, brings her back to the present.
"You're kinda not just a temp, right?"
"Nope," Wendy says. "But any more guessing and I'd have to kill you."
"Sadly, I'm a little worried you might actually mean that."
Wendy folds over, so relieved to have this out in the open and forgiven that she has to rest her head on their hands. Lacey pulls away, causing a momentary spike of panic, but then come the sounds of her settling next to Wendy on the futon and the feel of her arm across Wendy's bent shoulders.
"We're good, Dub-Dub."
"Good," Wendy says, turning so that their foreheads touch. "Cause, you know, you're kind of my person of interest too."
Lacey inhales sharply, breathing out a 'Wendy," but that's all she gets out before Wendy is kissing her, has to be kissing her, can't not be kissing her. She goes in gently, barely touching Lacey's lips at all, because jeepers, if this goes wrong, it's gonna be a level of awkward unknown to most forms of life. And Wendy's met most of them, at this point, so she can say that with real expertise.
Lacey freezes for a moment, just long enough for Wendy to start thinking about pulling away and apologizing forever, but then she's there, one hand in Wendy's hair, the other still clutching at Wendy's hand. She presses Wendy back, letting her go only to shove all the unnecessary pillows to the floor. They're only going to be in the way, Wendy thinks, before Lacey's pulling off her shirt and even the basic function of pillows escapes her.
*
Wendy bites at Lacey's bare shoulder a little. The futon's not really large enough for them to lie side by side without being half on top of each other. Which, right now, is absolutely just fine for Wendy.
"This was-"
"Unexpected?" Wendy interrupts.
"No," Lacey says thoughtfully. "Really not."
Wendy traces designs with a finger on the curve of Lacey's hip, a vine trailing upwards, a rabbit, the vague outline of one of her favorite Middle-devices.
"Just a little late," Wendy finishes. "For a couple of young, photogenic artists with open minds."
"We're dumb," says Lacey, and rolls back fully on top of her. She leans down until their noses bump gently. Wendy brings her arms up to wrap around Lacey's bare back, sliding down and down.
"Is it going to be weird if I still don't talk about my job?" Wendy asks, closing her eyes.
Lacey sighs, laying a path of lazy kisses across her cheeks. "No - wait, does it let you always respect the agency, autonomy and basic rights of all animal life?"
"Yep," Wendy says. "But I might have to miss some stuff."
"Be unreliable."
"Be late."
Lacey brings a hand up to touch at Wendy's neck, the line of her collarbone, the curve of a breast. It's kind of a long pause, and Wendy swallows hard.
"We'll be okay," Lacey corrects herself, grinning, "We'll be good."
"Holy moly, we will," Wendy says, and pulls her down.